


Favouring Fire

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Animal Death, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Multi, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22488268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Inspired by Repossession, by the lovely dreamsofspike!This chapter was beta'd by boughofawillowtree - thank you!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46





	Favouring Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamsofspike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Repossession](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19710115) by [dreamsofspike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/pseuds/dreamsofspike). 



> Inspired by Repossession, by the lovely dreamsofspike!
> 
> This chapter was beta'd by boughofawillowtree - thank you!

Crowley was bored.

Once the terror of being abducted and kept in Heaven wore off, he found himself staring at the walls, waiting for something to happen. When angels entered to interrogate him, they always asked the same questions over and over. And Crowley gave the same answers, over and over. 

No, he wasn’t in love with Aziraphale, he was only trying to seduce the angel.And no, it hadn’t worked. Yes, really. The bigger question was, were angels so bad at interrogation that they just used their fists and shouted? He’d been through worse meetings in Hell, and wasn’t that just embarrassing for them? 

Sometimes Crowley tried to see just how off topic he could get them, goading them about their piss poor technique, or comparing them to Hastur on a bad day. Then they would strike him, and shout at him, and prove him right. It was a tired routine, repeated over and over, and so Crowley was bored. If only something would _happen_ and save him from this tedium.

He lifted his head at the sound of the door opening. It had been a couple of hours since the last angel ‘visited’, and Crowley was almost glad for the company, until he saw who it was. The sight of slicked back brown hair and cold, violet eyes were enough to sour Crowley’s mood. Seeing Gabriel brought back memories of a flashing silver knife, and Crowley hid his shudder. 

“Hello, demon,” Gabriel said, tilting his head. “I thought you might be getting bored, so I brought us something to do together. Idle hands, as they say.” 

Crowley scowled as Gabriel stepped in, a box tucked under his arm. His suit was, as ever, immaculate. It was a dusty grey, much like every suit in Heaven, with a lavender tie. An affable smile was plastered to his face, and Crowley could almost believe it was genuine, if not for its tendency to curdle around the edges, turning into an expression that looked a lot like a leer.

Scoffing, Crowley turned his head to the side. “Eat sulfur and die, shit heel.”

“Is that any way to greet me?” Gabriel asked, sitting cross legged before Crowley. Gabriel’s expression was unreadable as he slid the box towards Crowley like a peace offering.

Despite himself, Crowley was curious; it wasn’t being used to hurt him, for once, and it didn’t radiate holy energy like everything else in Heaven. He inched closer to the box and looked down at it. The elegant etchings were all at once familiar and alien, and he ran a finger along a groove. It formed a square, which shared its side and bottom with two other squares, all the way down the length of the box. A few squares had more intricate carvings that Crowley could almost recognise.

“Famgraphdrux,” Crowley said. He arched a brow. “I didn’t know angels knew how to have fun.”

“Enochian has no place in your filthy demon mouth,” Gabriel said, eyes flashing with anger.

Crowley pressed his lips together and looked down, debating whether he should utter the game’s Demoniac name in front of Gabriel. He decided against it when Gabriel’s hand twitched, fingers curling in on themselves in warning. Gabriel opened the box and removed golden Leviathan’s tears. Crowley’s eyebrows rose at the sight of the game pieces. They were ornate, etchings decorating the curved top of them. Gabriel placed them on alternating squares, starting with the leftmost one. He reached back into the box, careful not to disturb the tokens on the board, and pulled out another set of Leviathan’s tears. These were translucent tokens, golden wings painted on the flat surface of each square. Gabriel put them in between each of the golden tokens, ending with the rightmost square.

Crowley glanced up at Gabriel. Those unnervingly violet eyes were studying him. Waiting. 

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “I don’t want to play your fucking game,” he snapped. “I want to leave.”

“Language, demon,” Gabriel said, lifting his eyebrows. “You’re in Her halls, not the pit of the damned.”

Crowley’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Language, Archangel,” he said.

Gabriel scowled and reached into the pocket of his suit. He pulled out the small remote to Crowley’s collar and ran his finger over the dial. Crowley tensed. He eyed the pensive look on Gabriel’s face. The beginnings of a sneer were plain to see and Crowley hunched into himself.

“Whatever,” he muttered, looking at the Famgraphdrux board. “So are we going to play?”

Gabriel snorted. “Patience is a virtue, demon. Do you need to learn the rules?”

“I taught humans how to play,” Crowley said, studying the board. 

“Demon,” Gabriel said warningly, “I expect a clear answer when I ask you a question.” His hand twitched, closing around an invisible knife.

“I know the rules,” Crowley said, hissing on the sibilant syllable. “I don’t need you to teach me.”

It was a game Crowley knew well. Most demons still called it Famgraphdrux, despite the way the words stuck in their throats and made them cough. In Ancient Egypt, after Crowley introduced it to humans in an attempt to get them to fight each other over losing, they named it Senet. Crowley remembered how he had to improvise when it became clear to him there was nothing that could imitate dice on Earth yet. They all used sticks, painting both ends on one side in white, both ends on the other side in black. Crowley found it funny at the time - the colours of angel wings and his own wings, two sides of the same coin. He adapted many of the rules to suit humanity, and often played this version with Aziraphale when they were in the same place at the same time. Drux was a simple enough game. It couldn’t be much different now than it was when he first played it with other demons, trying to reclaim what they lost.

Gabriel smiled indulgently, overlooking Crowley’s display of temper. “No? All right, then. I’ll expect a good game.”

“You don’t have a die,” Crowley pointed out at last.

“Of course,” Gabriel said and snapped his fingers. A die made of gold appeared in the palm of his hand and he tossed it up and down. “I’ll go first,” he said.

He threw the die onto the floor. The side with three white dots landed upright. He moved the rightmost white marker to the second row, three squares in. Crowley picked up the die and tossed it. It landed wrong, hovering between six and four, before landing on four. Crowley grinned and moved his marker forward four squares. He knocked Gabriel’s piece off of the board and leaned back, a smug look on his face.

“No,” Gabriel said, staring at the piece on the ground. He picked it up and placed it back on the board from where Crowley knocked it off, his expression one of vague amusement.

“I landed on your Leviathan’s Tear,” Crowley said, putting a finger on the piece. He pushed it towards Gabriel. “It gets knocked off.”

Gabriel nudged Crowley’s piece back to its starting position. “If you land on the other player’s _Gryphon’s Talon_ , you just move back to the beginning.”

“That’s not the rule, Gabriel,” Crowley protested, moving his marker back. He knocked Gabriel’s piece off of the board and pushed it back towards him, frowning. 

Gabriel’s hand wrapped around Crowley’s finger and he froze. He glanced up and met Gabriel’s eyes and had to fight the urge to shrink back. The relaxed joviality disappeared, replaced by cold, glittering fury. His hand tightened, and tightened more, and more, until Crowley felt the bones in his finger begin to creak.

“Stop,” Crowley said, his voice going slightly higher pitched. He tugged his arm back and Gabriel reached out with his other hand, placing it higher, wrapping around the delicate bones. “Gabriel, wait, shit, stop!”

A sickening crack resounded through the room. Crowley cried out in pain and clutched his broken finger to his chest. Gabriel watched, impassive, before picking up the die. He held it out to Crowley.

“You go again,” he said.

“Fuck you,” Crowley snarled.

Gabriel’s expression turned ugly. He pressed on the remote control to the collar and Crowley convulsed, gasping. The pain was intense - not enough to stop him from thinking, but enough to close off his vocal cords. Gabriel tossed the die to the ground. It landed on six.

“Seems like you’re having a string of luck, demon.” Gabriel moved Crowley’s piece up six squares while Crowley gurgled on the floor. “Perhaps _you’re_ the one cheating. Or, then again, maybe all of you in Hell decided to make up different rules to our Divine game.” Gabriel curled his lip. “Corrupting it.”

Gabriel finally turned the collar down. Crowley lay, gasping, sweat running down his nose and dripping to the floor. The die was shoved in his face and he snatched it out of Gabriel’s hand, sitting upright again. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Gabriel said, shaking his head. “If you weren’t such a cheat, I wouldn’t be forced to punish you.”

“Right, it’s my fault,” Crowley sneered.

Gabriel smiled. “Precisely. Now, roll.”

Crowley tossed the die onto the floor, using his left hand, as his right was still cradled to his chest. It landed on a one and Crowley pushed his piece forward one space. It rested on one of the squares with a carving in the middle and Crowley squinted at it.

“Ah,” Gabriel said. “This must have been added after you all fell.” He smiled and moved Crowley’s piece back four squares. “You failed your mission, and had to attend reeducation. You have to move back four squares and lose your turn. How unfortunate for you.”

“Sounds like a rule you’d make up,” Crowley said. “You sure you know how to play?”

Gabriel reached out and, with casual brutality, snapped another one of Crowley’s fingers - this time, on his left hand. Crowley made a sound halfway between a hiss and a yelp, his pointer bent wrong and rapidly swelling. Gabriel rolled the die, and it landed on a one. He made a sound of disappointment and moved his piece forward by one. He proffered it back to Crowley.

Crowley glared at him, hunching his back. “And how do you expect me to play when you’ve broken two of my fingers?”

“That’s your fault,” Gabriel said, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “Roll.”

“Fuck off,” Crowley said, leaning back. “I’m done with this. Go back to beating me, or whatever your fucked up head thinks of next.”

Gabriel frowned and tilted his head. “You can’t really prefer that, can you?” he asked. “Come on, demon, I’m trying to be friendly, here. Don’t be so unreasonable.” He shook his outstretched hand, the die rattling a little. “You can either play, or I can leave you in here with the collar turned up to its highest setting, until the next scheduled beating, as you put it. I don’t think that’s going to happen for another couple of days,” Gabriel said, examining his perfectly manicured nails. “Your choice, demon.”

Crowley took the die, careful to avoid jostling his two broken fingers, and rolled it. It landed on a three, and he moved his piece one square shy of the trap square. Gabriel held out his hand and Crowley dropped the die into it without a sound. They went back and forth until Gabriel landed on the next trap square. Crowley grinned; he recognised that symbol anywhere.

“Water,” he taunted, jerking his head at the board. “You lose your turn.”

Gabriel’s answering smile was patronising. “You’ll find that’s air, which propels me to the end,” he said. He moved his piece to the end of the board, and then picked up the die. “And I get to roll again.”

“Hang on,” Crowley said before he could stop himself. “That’s not the sigil for air. Even I know that much.”

Gabriel lifted his eyebrows. “As if you would know more Enochian than me, demon.”

“I know enough to tell you that it’s water, not air,” Crowley snapped. He tapped the square with one of his non-broken fingers. “See? The squiggle at the end is all wrong for air. It’s wavy, not curly.”

Gabriel sighed and grabbed Crowley’s offending finger. “When will you learn?” he asked, breaking it with a casual twist of his hand. “Cheating will only get you punished, demon.” 

Crowley howled and rocked backward. Tears came to his eyes and he hissed in fury. Gabriel’s lips twitched as he watched, his eyes glinting. He picked up the die and rolled it, tracking it as it came to a stop by Crowley’s knees. The side with six white spots landed upright. Gabriel smirked in cruel satisfaction.

The collar buzzed as pain lanced through Crowley, sending him to the ground again, his mind blank of anything but the pain. He convulsed, watching Gabriel pick up the die again and toss it up and down. He looked at his pieces, locked in as they were by Crowley’s, and frowned.

“It’ll take another six for me to be able to move past your piece here,” he said, tapping Crowley’s second piece. “Let’s see if I can make it.”

He rolled the die and it landed on a three. He scowled and rolled it again. One. Five. Three. All the while, Crowley convulsed, pain coursing through him. Gabriel’s scowl deepened with each missed throw. Finally, at the edges of what Crowley thought he could bear, Gabriel’s die landed on a six.

“There we are,” Gabriel said, and turned off the collar.

Crowley retreated as far as the chain would let him. It rattled, taut, as he glared, his hair slick with sweat. Gabriel moved his piece, hopping over Crowley’s, and placed it four squares down the second row. He looked up at Crowley and beckoned.

“We’re not through playing yet,” he said.

Crowley said nothing, drawing back just a little further. The collar cut into his neck, a promise of what was to come if he kept disobeying. Gabriel’s eyes flashed and, slowly, Crowley inched back towards the game. With a smile, Gabriel tossed the die into the air and let it land.

It landed on a three, and the game continued from there. Crowley skipped over the last trap with a lucky five. He was smug, perhaps too smug, inching his piece forward square by square, until Gabriel reached out and snapped two fingers in quick succession. Crowley hissed, a long, drawn out sound.

Gabriel wrinkled his nose. “Really, must you revert to your base nature every time something happens to you? It’s so disgusting.”

Crowley stared at his left hand in silence. Four fingers were now broken and swollen. He could feel his body trying to heal them, and the collar limiting what he could do. The pain was sharp and throbbing. “Do you have to keep breaking my fingers?”

“If you learned a little humility,” Gabriel snapped, “and honour, maybe I would stop. Until then, demon, you’re going to have to learn your lesson.” He picked up the die and tossed it to the ground. It rolled onto a six and Gabriel moved his last piece up to the reeducation square. 

Despite himself, Crowley grinned. “Four spaces back,” he said, reaching out, unthinking, to move Gabriel’s piece back.

Crack went two more fingers, leaving Crowley’s entire left hand broken, and around half of his right. Crowley screamed this time, and Gabriel smiled, closing his eyes at the sound of it.

“I hate to tell you, demon,” Gabriel said, “but if a player rolls a six and lands on the square, it turns into God’s Grace. That ends the game.” He inhaled in a mockery of a sympathetic wince. “All of my pieces move to the end, and off the board.”

“Bullshit,” Crowley said. He kept his hands to himself, though. “I rolled a six and landed on it.”

“I’ll get you a copy of the rulebook,” Gabriel said with a smile. He gathered up the pieces and the die, putting them back inside the box. “Until next game, demon.”

“What, you’re just going to leave?” Crowley asked as Gabriel stood. “What about my fingers?”

“You should have learned by now, demon,” Gabriel said, shaking his head. “You’re going to have to learn your lesson before I do anything for you.”

Crowley reached out and grabbed the fabric of Gabriel’s pants leg with his right hand. Gabriel froze and shook Crowley’s hand off. Then he slammed his shoe down on Crowley’s hand. The bones crunched and Crowley yelled. Gabriel ground in his heel, crunching more bones. He stepped back and left the room without any other comment. Crowley stayed in the centre of the room, curled over his ruined hands, and cried.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Time stopped having meaning the fifth day after Gabriel left. Crowley stared at the wall, the constant pain in his fingers and the fuzziness from the collar making it impossible to stay focused. No one came to disturb his solitude; he was suspended in time, a formless ghost, lost and alone. The loneliness ground against him, wore down his defenses, penetrated the usual walls around his heart. He missed Aziraphale. He missed his angel’s smile, his soft kisses, his touch. Being imprisoned in a lightless cell, chained to the centre of it, was enough to make him break.

Except he wouldn’t. Not while Aziraphale was out there, waiting for him.

The door slammed open and Crowley lifted his head listlessly. Gabriel strode through, the picture of a storm. In his white-knuckled grip was the ‘Drux box, and Crowley’s gaze locked on it like it was a beacon.

“Hello, demon,” Gabriel said, and Crowley could hear the effort to keep anger from Gabriel’s voice. “Excited to see me?”

Crowley didn’t answer. He looked down at his fingers, crooked and swollen, and back up at Gabriel. He licked his lips.

“Answer me,” Gabriel demanded.

“Yes,” Crowley said, his voice hoarse with disuse. “Whatever. I'm so happy to see you, most holy Archangel Gabriel.”

Gabriel’s foot shifted and, remembering cracking and searing pain, Crowley dropped his eyes and shrank back in on himself. There was a rustle of fabric as Gabriel sat himself down and placed the box between them. Crowley flinched as Gabriel reached out towards his hands. The Archangel snorted, impatiently grabbing Crowley’s wrists and staring with bird-like focus at Crowley’s fingers. The bones creaked as they reset, and Crowley let out a small gasp of relief.

“I thought you might like a rematch,” Gabriel said with a smirk. “Redeem yourself after your last pathetic display.” He released Crowley’s hands and started to set up the board. “Maybe try using the proper rules, instead of making them up as you go.”

Crowley stared down at the board. He was sure that Gabriel was the only one in the room making up the rules as he went along, but he knew better than to say that. Still, there was a small voice in the back of his mind, sinister in its strength, telling him that Gabriel was right. That Crowley was cheating, sneaky, false. A liar.

A worthless demon.

A drain on Aziraphale.

“Then,” Crowley forced himself to say, “will you teach me Heaven’s rules for it? If Hell’s are so wrong?”

There was a long silence, during which Crowley refused to look up from the board. Gabriel’s finger rested on his chin and Crowley’s entire body stiffened as his head was forced up. The dark triumph in Gabriel’s eyes was terrifying. Crowley’s heart rate spiked and he jerked his head away. Gabriel smiled and turned his attention to the board. 

“It would be a genuine pleasure to show you the right way of doing things, Crowley,” Gabriel said.

Crowley swallowed. 


End file.
